


Chestnuts

by Thilien



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Having A Moment Here, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire, Little bit of angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Very Mild Reference to Possible Torture/Threat, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thilien/pseuds/Thilien
Summary: "At first glance, Crowley looked his usual unruffled and immaculate self. Sharply tailored frock-coat, cane held lightly in one hand, those sharply cut sideburns accenting the angles of his face. But Aziraphale had known Crowley too long to not see the slight stiffness in the demon’s usually relaxed gait, the way he held himself slightly awkwardly on one side, the trace of a limp in his step."In which a demon is injured, an angel is anxious, it's all Charles Dickens' fault, and some chestnuts get eaten. Little bit of angst, little bit of hurt/comfort, lots of friendship and Christmas feels.Prompt fill for day 9 of Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables advent calendar. Prompt: Chestnuts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559806
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	Chestnuts

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Drawlight for the wonderful prompt list!
> 
> It really doesn't need saying but I don't own any of this. All the good stuff belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, and to the wonderful folk who bought the book to life for us on screen. I'm just borrowing and playing with it for a while.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this. As always, comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated x

**Chestnuts**

**London, 1843**

Crowley was late.

Aziraphale looked around the park once more, eyes seeking out the demon’s lean form. He was on edge, nervous. 

Crowley was never late. In fact it was usually Aziraphale who arrived at their rendezvous in the nick of time, having inevitably become wrapped up in whatever he was reading. 

So the fact that the demon was now a good 10 minutes past their agreed meeting time was a cause of some concern to Aziraphale. And he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. 

Crowley was, after all, a demon. And therefore not someone that Aziraphale should even be associating with, let along fretting over. 

So the sensible thing to do - the _angelic_ thing to do - would be to leave.

But Aziraphale wasn’t feeling sensible, or even particularly angelic, right now. He was feeling worried. He had, though he would never dare even infer so much to Heaven, become inordinately fond of the demon’s company. Crowley was capable of being grouchy, acerbic, stubborn and, when the mood took him, downright devilish. But the demon was also witty, amiable, and fiercely intelligent. His presence had made the last few thousand years considerably more tolerable. 

The thought that something might have happened to him made Aziraphale’s blood run cold. Especially considering the risks involved in this little ‘Arrangement’ of theirs.

Aziraphale wasn’t a fool. If Heaven found out about The Arrangement, he knew they’d be furious. But the worst that could happen to an angel was that they would Fall. If Hell found out that Crowley was in league with an angel, they’d destroy him. And Aziraphale genuinely didn’t know which of those outcomes terrified him more. 

The angel was just debating walking in the direction of Crowley’s rooms when, finally, he caught sight of the demon’s lanky frame.

At first glance, Crowley looked his usual unruffled and immaculate self. Sharply tailored frock-coat, cane held lightly in one hand, those sharply cut sideburns accenting the angles of his face.

But Aziraphale had known Crowley too long to not see the slight stiffness in the demon’s usually relaxed gait, the way he held himself slightly awkwardly on one side, the trace of a limp in his step. 

Instead of allaying his fears, the sight made Aziraphale fret all the more. As Crowley got closer, Aziraphale rose up from the bench he’d been waiting on.

“Sorry ‘m late angel,” the demon said, cutting Aziraphale off before he could form any of the many questions he wanted to ask, “Stopped to pick you up these and got waylaid.”

Crowley pulled a twist of paper out of his pocket and handed them to Aziraphale. From the inside of the makeshift packet, the sweet smell of freshly roasted chestnuts rose in the air.

Aziraphale glanced briefly at the gift before returning his gaze to Crowley. For all the demon’s apparent nonchalance, he could see the tension in Crowley’s jaw, the way his fingers clasped the head of his cane just a little too tightly. 

“My dear fellow, what-”

Crowley held up a hand warningly, casting his head down and away from Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Best you don’t ask angel. The less you know, the better.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “But you’re _limping_ -,” he implored.

“‘S okay. Really. ‘S just...demon stuff. Nothing to do with this,” Crowley moved a hand between them, his gesture seemingly meant to encompass the complex tangle of interconnection that their Arrangement had become, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“But Crowley-”

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Aziraphale had reached out to grasp the demon’s arm. 

The shock of the contact made them both draw breath. 

They had touched before of course. Over the course of 6,000 years it would be impossible not to. Drunkenly stumbling into each other as they fell out of a tavern, a tap on the shoulder to draw the attention, a brief touch of hands when exchanging something.

But they never touched deliberately. Never sought out physical contact. But, in that moment, all Aziraphale wanted to do was reach out and offer comfort to his friend. His _friend._

Aziraphale felt like he’d been hit by a coach and four. Crowley was a _demon_. They weren’t friends. They couldn’t be. But, when he thought about it, what else were they? Acquaintances didn’t generally spend whole evenings getting drunk together, enemies didn’t spend hours laughing about the absurdities of their respective professions, and associates didn’t generally care for each other’s wellbeing. And, Aziraphale realised with a blush, he did _care_. 

He cared about Crowley.

The thought made him momentarily incoherent. 

For his part, the demon in question recovered his composure more swiftly. Gently, he steered Aziraphale back to the bench so they could both sit down. Glancing around them to confirm that no one was watching, he removed his glasses. 

The sight of Crowley’s eyes, so rarely exposed these days, did little to help Aziraphale’s composure. He understood why the demon kept them covered up, of course, but he hated not being able to see them. Partly because those damnable shades hid so much about what Crowley was thinking, and partly because he’d always thought the demon’s eyes were rather beautiful. 

This last thought did nothing to help matters. 

“Really angel,” Crowley said again, his tone reassuring now “I’m fine. No need to get yourself all worked up. It’s just...a bad day at the office.”

“But…” Despite the sincerity in Crowley’s gaze, Aziraphale still wasn’t entirely convinced. “But what on earth could have got them so riled up down there?”

He thought back over the recent memos from Head Office, trying to think whether any particularly large blessings or significant miracles had been in the works that he should have warned Crowley about. 

Crowley shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. 

“‘S nothing your lot have done angel. It’s the humans again. Or rather, one human in particular. Some bloke called Dickens.”

“The writer?”

Crowley nodded. “That’s the one.”

“How has a writer managed to upset Hell? I mean, it’s usually my lot they end up offending- ”

“It’s his new book,” Crowley explained.

Aziraphale thought back through the week. He didn’t, as a general rule, encourage customers in the bookshop and, when they did venture in, generally paid more attention to ensuring they avoided any of the stock he wanted to keep (most of it) than what they actually ended up buying. Casting his mind back though, he seemed to recall he had sold a fair few copies of Mr Dickens’ latest.

“A Christmas Carol?”

“That’s the one,” Crowley said.

“Hell is annoyed about a Christmas book?”

The demon shook his head. “Apparently this isn’t just any Christmas book, angel. It’s _the_ Christmas book. The humans have been going nuts for it. According to Dagon, it’s sold 4,000 copies and it’s only been out for 4 days. And it’s a redemptive little tale all told. Some miserly bugger gets set on the path to Christian charity through the actions of three ghosts and a small boy with a bad cough.”

“Sounds innocent enough.”

Crowley snorted derisively.

“That’s precisely the problem angel. It _is_ innocent. And whimsical. And,” Crowley sounded genuinely nauseated at the mere thought, “ _sweet_. The humans love it. And it’s causing them to spread far too much peace and goodwill over Christmas. And that means fewer arguments, fewer incidents of familial discord, and fewer souls set on the path to eternal damnation. Beezlebub is furious.”

“And, how is this your fault exactly?”

“It’s not,” Crowley said, grimacing. “I was just the one who had to present the report on the damn thing, so I happened to be the poor sod in the room when Beez found out.” 

“But that’s awful!”

Crowley shrugged again. “It’s Hell angel, not the church picnic. I told you, my lot don’t send rude notes.” He nodded down at the little paper twist of chestnuts still clutched in Aziraphale’s hand, clearly eager to move on from the subject of Hell’s disciplinary policies, “Now are you going to eat those or not?”

Aziraphale looked down at the bag of chestnuts, still clutched tightly in one hand. Then he looked back up at Crowley. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

For a few brief seconds, a myriad of emotions flickered across Crowley’s face. Amusement. Sadness. Something else Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to describe - hope? Then his mask slipped into place.”

“I keep telling you, I’m fine angel. I’ve weathered worse. Nothing broken but my pride. Now,” he pointed down to the bag of chestnuts again, “eat your chestnuts or I’ll start to think you don’t appreciate the present.” 

The chestnuts were warm, gently roasted, and perfectly sweet, just as Aziraphale liked them. After a few moments of munching them in companionable silence, a thought occurred to him. 

“Did you really stop to buy these for me, or did you just get them so you’d have a terrible cover story for being waylaid by Hell?”

“Angel, I’m wounded,” Crowley replied, a picture of mock indignation, “You like roasted chestnuts. I passed a chestnut seller on the way here. I bought you roast chestnuts. Simple.”

Aziraphale was tempted to point out that nothing about either of them was simple. They were an angel and a demon, sitting on a bench in St James Park. They weren’t supposed to be there, they most definitely weren’t supposed to be there together, and he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be nibbling on chestnuts that had been bought by his mortal enemy. But, right now, none of that mattered. He was passing the time with a friend. 

And, Aziraphale realised with a smile, sometimes it really was that simple. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Do drop me a comment and/or some kudos if you did - it really does make my heart sing to hear off people who've read the fic, and I love chatting to other members of the GO fandom.
> 
> It might interest you to know that 'A Christmas Carol' really was a runaway success. It was released on 19 December 1843 and the first print run of 6,000 copies sold out by Christmas Eve!


End file.
